


Three Thousand Turns

by TheCacklingLass



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Supergiant Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCacklingLass/pseuds/TheCacklingLass
Summary: At the end of another year, Sandra and The Reader still have each other.Written for velvetsmagilou on tumblr as part of Supergiant Games Secret Santa 2k17.





	Three Thousand Turns

It is amazing what does and does not change over the course of millennia.

Even today, she is The Reader. Three thousand years later and that is still, somehow, her primary moniker. Three thousand years later and it still, somehow, does not bother her; not when the children run up to her giggling it out, not when her wife says it in that ever-teasing manner of hers, not when she sees it in colorful letters on the library’s posters, advertising her community programs to the general populace.

It helps, of course, that the word does not carry so much scorn as it did all that time ago. Three thousand years later and she is valued for her skills with and dedication to the written word, her willingness to pass it down to others. Three thousand years later and parents eagerly bring her their children so she can teach them to do what she does, to read, to learn, to see the world through opened eyes.

She is happy to oblige, of course. Three thousand years later and the memory of an illiterate Commonwealth is still fresh in her mind, its people ignorant and dangerous and angry. She remembers too well what a lack of information can do in the hands of those who know all too much.

But there is another reason The Reader loves to teach, and that is because the more enthusiastic children who spend their days under her care, the ones who are so eager and open to learning, remind her of Mae. She has had many such pupils, and they have all reminded her of her first, that pale girl who heard the Scribes in a time where people still remembered them. This time of year, she is especially prone to nostalgia, when snow coats the ground and the people are filled with charity and kindness.

It does not help an immortal woman to mourn the dead, however, so she shakes off such thoughts and returns her attention to the expectant half circle of elementary schoolers before her. It’s the last day she’ll see them for a few weeks, so she puts a little extra energy into her funny voices and her facial expressions. The children respond with a little extra energy in their laughter, and it is reward enough.

When she is done and packing her things, a young mother approaches her.

“Excuse me, Miss Blinde?” the woman is small and rosy cheeked, having just come in from the cold. Mark, one of The Reader’s most eager students, is shying away from jer behind his mother’s coat as they approach. She carries a large gift basket. “This is for you,” she says, and holds out the present, “Some of the other parents and I all chipped in for it. We all really appreciate what you’re doing here, and we wanted to make sure you actually _felt_ appreciated, since it’s the holidays and all.”

“Thank you,” The Reader says, and she smiles graciously and takes the basket. She talks with the mother for a few minutes, about Mark’s progress since he started coming to her programs and how excited they all are to see each other again in the new year, and then eventually she grabs her cane and starts limping out towards the lobby, gift basket held in her other hand.

When she clumps her way up to Sandra, sitting at her usual table with her usual coffee, she scowls in annoyance; three thousand years later and The Reader still can’t tell if it is genuine or in jest.

“You’re late,” Sandra says, standing up and grabbing her own cane.

“One of the mothers gave us a gift basket,” she tells her setting it on the table and letting the plastic wrapping crinkle loudly, “We spent some time talking afterwards.”

“Hm. How generous.”

“Be nice, dear, it _is_ generosity.”

“Fine, fine,” Sandra waves the issue off and starts walking towards the library’s entrance, “Then I suppose we ought to get home and enjoy their gift then, yes?”

“Of course, dear,” The Reader smiles and picks the basket up again. She misses holding hands with her wife the entire way back to their small house, but it’s not a long walk, and soon enough they’re tangled together on the couch, telling each other mundane little stories about their days which eventually devolve into tall tales, as tends to happen, each woman trying to one up her wife. Three thousand years later and they still manage to bend the truth in new and ridiculous ways. Eventually The Reader gets up to make a fire, and when she settles back in with Sandra the living room is quiet, apart from the crackle and the gentle thrum of the remaining half of the Beyonder Crystal from its place in front of the chimney, working to keep the two of them alive three thousand years later.

Sandra and The Reader both fall into recollection so easily, what with so many memories to recall, and they have come to know when the other is deep in thought. They don’t talk about Nightwings or Downsides anymore, because in three thousand years they’ve said all there is to say about such distant and bygone things. They never lack for other topics, of course, because the two of them chose their existence specifically to continue to learn and grow with the world around them. They don’t talk about Nightwings or Downsides, but they do think about them, and when that happens they hold each other close in comfort, companions in an understanding only they hold.

A few times that night the doorbell rings, Christmas Carolers spreading cheer and spirit, and Sandra even comes to the door for one of the groups, wiping the grumpiness off her face and giving them the wry smile The Reader loves so much. Outside there is snowfall, and their street is lit by a rainbow of tiny bulbs hung on porches and in the leafless branches of dormant trees. Christmas is strange to them both, Sandra and her Dearest Reader, as one might expect for those who have watched the holiday form and evolve over hundreds of years. Nevertheless, they enjoy it the most out of all the celebrations the mortals around them hold, because those memories they slip into so easily are full of men and women who embodied the very essence of goodwill.

The fire continues to crackle, the broken crystal continues to hum, The Reader and her wife drift off to sleep as they have so many times before, and the world continues to turn through its ever-shifting seasons. Three thousand years later and it still amazes them both what does and does not change.


End file.
